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What's the Craziest Thing You Can Do With Oatmeal


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A couple of friends of mine have been wondering what is the craziest thing you can do with oatmeal that is still preferably edible. So far the only things we have come up with are:

  • Oatmeal Muffins (they do exist and aren't crazy enough)
  • Bacon wrapped oatmeal deep fried (too much of a hassle I don't have a deep fryer)
  • Oatmeal porridge with bacon bits (not crazy enough)
  • Oatmeal pancakes (don't know how to make them)

So I'm basically starting this thread to ask you the bronies what is the craziest thing you can do with oatmeal. Edible or not I don't care just as long as it's crazy.

If anyone is game enough and wants to make any of the things suggested please post pictures and a recipe/guide.

Remember oatmeal = crazy

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It solidifies quite well. You could probably make a stable house out of it.

Well it would be possible to make a gingerbread style oatmeal house that would be interesting but difficult I've never been one for arts and crafts personally so the house would just have 4 walls and a flat roof (I am so terrible at art) and maybe if I'm feeling game enough a door

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Well it would be possible to make a gingerbread style oatmeal house that would be interesting but difficult I've never been one for arts and crafts personally so the house would just have 4 walls and a flat roof (I am so terrible at art) and maybe if I'm feeling game enough a door

And when you want to move, you can just eat it!

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Peanut-butter Oatmeal Nobake drop cookies.  They're....so...yummy....especially made with chocolate.

Also, it works as a temporary kitty litter (hey, whatever works...)

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  • 1 month later...

AS A WEAPON!

Get it really hot

Fill bottles with it

Throw bottles

They shatter on impact, dealing damage - but that's not all! Your new OATMEAL GRENADES also taste good (besides the glass and blood), and cover your foes in burning, sticky, gooey oatmeal! YAAY!

or you can try grinding it up and injecting it into your bloodstream, but what's the fun in that?

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  • 2 weeks later...

I once saw some ladies wrestling in oatmeal. Not really edible. One of my favorite poems is about oatmeal:

"Oatmeal" by Galway Kinnell

I eat oatmeal for breakfast.

I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.

I eat it alone.

I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.

Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health if somebody eats it with you.

That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have breakfast with.

Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary companion.

Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge, as he called it with John Keats.

Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:

due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime, and unsual willingness to disintigrate, oatmeal should not be eaten alone.

He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John Milton.

Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something from it.

Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the "Ode to a Nightingale."

He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through his porridge.

He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his pocket,

but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas, and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if they got it right.

An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket through a hole in his pocket.

He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas, and the way here and there a line will go into the configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark, causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.

He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.

I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal alone.

When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."

He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.

He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there is much of one.

But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours," came to him while eating oatmeal alone.

I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering furrows, muttering.

Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.

For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.

I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneaously gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh to join me.

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